


Marvelous

by Mightaswellwrite1996



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Daily Bugle, Gen, Origin Story, Spider-Man Identity Reveal, Two Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28129299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mightaswellwrite1996/pseuds/Mightaswellwrite1996
Summary: Ben Reilly was half-way through his dinner (a three dollar hot-dog with relish he had paid five dollars for) when he received the text.“From: J.J.J.REILLY. BROOKLYN BRIDGE. NOW.”Hailing a cab, he threw the rest of his hot-dog away.---A Ben Reilly focused AU where Peter dies young, never works for the Daily Bugle, and I'm generally playing fast and loose with Spider-Man lore.
Kudos: 13





	1. The Night Gwen Stacy Died

Ben Reilly was half-way through his dinner (a three dollar hot-dog with relish he had paid five dollars for) when he received the text. Of course it couldn't be from little nephew Phil, or his (long imaginary) girlfriend, or anyone like that. Nope, it was from his jolly old boss, professional talking head and owner of the Daily Bugle, J. Jonah Jameson.

“From: J.J.J.

REILLY. BROOKLYN BRIDGE. NOW OR YOU'RE FIRED.”

Hailing a cab, Ben threw the rest of his hot-dog away.

“Where you headed, man?” 

Ben hopped into the plastic-wrapped backseat of the cab. Oh, wow, a cab company that _didn't_ want it's customers catching syphilis. Neat. “Brooklyn Bridge, fast as you can.”

The driver (in his mid-forties, Ben figured, with a wart on his cheek) twisted to face his passenger.

“You know there’s an . . . _incident_ happening there, right?”

Ben smiled. “I know. I’ll pay extra.”

* * *

Hopping out and snatching his phone, Ben was amazed at the crowd that had gathered. The sun gently set over the city as a purple-and-green costumed demon (the Green Goblin, as the Daily Bugle had taken to name him) circled the top of the Brooklyn Bridge on his glider, holding a beautiful (and terrified) blonde woman off to the side and cackling maniacally.

Jameson was going to _love_ this. 

_Thwip!_

There he was. Spider-Man (can’t forget the hyphen, _very_ important for the legal team at the Bugle). Was he trying to . . . talk the Green Goblin down? Not that Ben could speculate much; it wouldn’t record itself after all. 

But then everything went wrong. 

The Green Goblin tossed her off the bridge, falling faster and faster towards the East River.

Spider-Man jumped, using his webs to zip himself closer and closer to her. It wouldn’t be enough; not enough time. Shooting a web out towards her, he came to stand sideways on one of the Bridge’s beams. The web connected, and the woman came to a sudden sickening stop _just_ above the water. Ben wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard a quiet _crack!_

Spider-Man frantically pulled the lifeless body to him. “Of course,” Ben realized. The stop had broken her neck. 

A fall of over two-hundred fifty feet didn’t have great odds for survival, but . . .

In trying to save her, Spider-Man had conclusively, definitively, without any doubt, killed her.

He held the body close to him as he wept.

Spider-Man, who shot off jokes at burglars while covered in red-and-blue spandex, _wept over a dead girl’s body_.

Solemnly walking back up to the deck, he laid her body in the middle of the road. Everyone was out of their cars, silently recording or watching the . . . _whatever_ that was happening; none of the cars were going to be moving any time soon. Neither was the Green Goblin, still circling the Bridge tower and laughing louder than ever.

Spider-Man swung off. He sprinted up the tower and jumped off halfway up, twirling through the air as the crowd _ooh'_ d and _ah'_ d. He landed directly on top of the Green Goblin, webbing up his mask and punching furiously. The Green Goblin sent his glider into a series of nose-diving barrel rolls, hurtling towards the pavement. Spider-Man didn’t care. Punch, punch, punch, punch . . .

The Green Goblin finally blocked one of Spider-Man’s blows, grabbing his fist and throwing him towards the ground. His body bounced off the asphalt as the crowd screamed.

Less than half a second later, the glider impaled him with the _chink_ of metal sliding between ribs. The crowd screamed louder.

The Goblin had jumped off of the glider, landing on the bridge with a gymnast's somersault. 

“My adoring public!”

Half of the crowd fled; half stood frozen in terror. Ben wasn’t recording by choice at this point. He had forgotten he was recording at all. 

“I give you: Spider-Man, defeated!”

With the glider still lodged through his chest, Spider-Man pounded the road in agony, leaving cracks that would take work-crews weeks to repair.

“Shame he killed off his girlfriend before I could have had my fun, but sometimes finishing a girl off nice and slow isn’t in the cards. She was pretty, though. Wasn’t she, Peter?”

Spider-Man (or . . . Peter? Peter _who?_ ) struggled to get up. The glider was still flickering on and off, as if trying to drive itself deeper into him. Barely standing, he slowly pulled the glider out of his stomach, grunting in pain the whole time. He aimed the glider directly at the Goblin’s heart.

The glider flickered back to life.

Spider-Man let go.

And the glider took it’s second victim of the night.


	2. The Night Ben Reilly Transformed

Ben Reilly’s couch broke months ago; he stuffed an ironing board underneath it’s cushions for extra support. But he still couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t the noisy plumbing, or the broken heater that Mr. Ditkovitch didn’t fix, or the flickering end-table lamp, even. 

Every time he closed his eyes, he was back on the Brooklyn Bridge. These things didn’t happen around innocents. 

Ever since discovering Captain America in school, he concluded there were three types of people: innocents, regular folks without powers; Marvels,superhuman heroes, further subdivided into mutants and not-mutants; and villains. The villains were defeated, the Marvels won, and the innocents were saved.

Marvels didn’t die. Temporarily sidelined, frozen or possessed or paralyzed, but they didn’t die. And they _certainly_ didn’t fail. And they _most certainly_ didn’t kill innocents, even accidentally! So now Peter Parker was floating around in the nameless space between all three.

He threw on his red hoodie and a playlist, wishing to walk until his legs atrophied. Even in freezing mid-October, with gusts whipping around him. He relished all forty-five minutes of his walk to the Bugle.

The Daily Bugle was a tan Art-Deco skyscraper built on prime New York real estate, a quick walk to Times Square. The website and Jonah’s books sold, but the paper itself was slowly bleeding money like most.

The bullpen smelt of bleach and soap. “Wet Floor” signs lined the hallways between empty offices and cubicles. He filled a paper cup from the water cooler, savoring the quiet. Until Foswell walked in.

Frederick Foswell dedicated so much of his time slaving away that Ben wasn’t sure he had a home. He was thin and wiry, with brown eyes that matched his receding brown hair. His skin was the color of fresh newsprint. He had a mustache that curled around his upper lip, and Coke-bottle glasses. 

“Graveyard shift, huh?” Foswell asked.

“I’m sure we were gonna be called in early anyway,” Ben said.

“Yeah, I heard about what happened. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m fine.”

Foswell furrowed his brow. “It’s alright if you’re not fine, you know.”

Ben glanced toward the elevator. “I know. I am.”

“Lying to me isn’t smart, Ben.” 

Ben crushed the paper cup. “God, what are you, my dad? I’m _fine_ , okay?”

Foswell gave a look of concern, but walked away.

* * *

J. Jonah Jameson had called an early morning meeting for select Bugle staff. Jonah was average build for being dragged into his sixties kicking and screaming. His eyes were turning steel grey, the same for his hair and pencil mustache. If there was one thing about Jonah that drove people crazy, it was his mouth. Yes, he was loud and talkative, but his mouth was a small dog, determined to act tough at all times. He either yelled, chomped, chewed, or ground his teeth together.

Robbie, editor-in-chief (his name was Joseph Robertson, but everyone just called him “Robbie”) was taller than Jonah, African-American, a full head of black hair, and sporting an American flag pin on the lapel of his overcoat.

“We won’t get anywhere by spitting out undercooked stories about Peter Parker’s third grade teacher.”

“I’m sorry, are you arguing that we have to have reliable and complete stories before we publish them? Who are you and what have you done with J. Jonah Jameson?”

“Hey! I’ll have you know my journalistic ethics won me the Pulitzer. Twice!”

Next was reporter Ned Leeds and Jameson’s personal secretary Betty Brant. Ned was muscular, bright blue eyes, swooping jet black hair and his Asian heritage shining through. His articles were as intriguing as drywall; though when all you’re handed is planetarium galas and parades and festivals, it was pretty hard to squeeze water from a stone. 

Betty had a more athletic build in contrast to Ned’s pure bulk. Her brown bob of hair was unmistakable, as she scratched the nicotine patch on her snowy-white arm. She was an effective secretary for Jonah - she knew when to take him seriously and when to ignore him while blasting death metal through her earbuds and fantasizing about hanging him from his fingernails. 

“The paper will survive without us. That’s why we hired Francine!”

“Jameson will walk right over her! Besides, who are they going to hire to replace _me?_ ”

Betty rolled her eyes affectionately. “I’m sure they could never replace you.”

Then the aforementioned Francine Weathers. One would think her defining feature would be her long, frizzled black hair - but it would have to accept a backseat to the scar. The purple, lesion-looking relic on her left cheek jumped out against her dark brown skin. Struck by lightning as a kid (at least, that was what Ben had heard while snooping outside of the break room, and he wasn’t going to ask), she was constantly running around as if another would smite her for the slightest mistake. Though maybe a hundred pounds sopping wet, she was a constant ball of nervous energy, wrecking cubicles and knocking over file cabinets.

“Everyone’s probably there already! Ugh, please don’t let him fire me, please don’t let him fire me . . .”

* * *

“O’Reilly, get in here. Now! Come on, vamoose. I should fire you for being the last one in.”

Jonah sat comfortably in his office chair, the others in a semi-circle of plain wooden chairs around his desk. His desk was covered in books and stationary, lamps and family photos, paperclips, his laptop (did he even know where the power button was on that thing?), a scale that Ben had never seen him use . . . a disaster area that couldn’t be salvaged even by S.H.I.E.L.D. swooping in.

Ben begrudgingly plopped down in the empty chair. “It’s just Reilly. There’s no “O” in there. I’m not Irish.”

“And if you had come to my office with everyone else, we could have cleared the air on this two minutes ago,” said Jonah, grabbing a cigar.

“Uh, sir?” Francine asked, raising her hand; a student correcting the class teacher. “The no-smoking policy.”

Jonah struck a match off of his desk. “That’s for employees, Weathers. I own this place! I can break the no-smoking policy all damn day.”

Robbie shook his head, while Betty stared intensely at the lit cigar. 

“Everyone in this city is going to be covering The Night Gwen Stacy Died for a while,” Jameson explained, uncharacteristically quiet, “so we’re going to do it the best. We’ve got everything on the Bridge on the front page for today’s, but it’s barebones. Leeds, you’ll be covering Norman Osborn, in depth. Get to his son and his girlfriend, Liz or whatever her name is.”

“So I’ll get to cover Osborn _and_ Spider-Man, right?” Ned asked.

Jonah ignored him. “Brant. I want you covering Stacy with the same depth.”

Betty’s eyes gleamed as she gasped. “You’re giving me an assignment?”

“Weathers needs to learn the ropes of being my personal assistant,” Jonah explained, waving smoke out of the air while Francine fidgeted with her hair.

Betty gushed, shaking the arm of a smiling Ned, who wrapped an arm around her.

_“Ugh, get a room.”_

“And Reilly. You cover Spider-Ma . . . Parker.”

“Wait wait wait,” Ben interrupted. “Mr. Jameson, I’m a photographer. I record events; I take pictures. I’m not a writer!”

“Yeah,” said Ned. “How come you’re giving _him_ the Spider-Man story? I’m, like, the dude’s biggest fan and I’m way more qualified - no offense, Ben.”

_“Oh, none taken. Prick.”_

“Reilly has personal stakes. Who better to write about the life of Spider-Man than a man who watched him die? Besides, Robbie will fix it up to be better than your Green Goblin story, Leeds.”

Ned scoffed.

“No promises,” Robbie cautioned. “I can’t polish a turd into a diamond.”

“Bet you five hundred bucks his story’s shit,” Ned muttered.

Ben scowled. “Mr. Jameson, I’ll do my best.”

Ned slumped back in his chair.

“Alright, now get out of my office. Let’s go, scram. If you have any questions, send them to Robbie. That’s what I pay him for.”

“More like what I don’t get paid _enough_ for,” Robbie corrected.

“Same difference. Let’s go, people! Time’s a-wasting.”

* * *

Ben rang the doorbell, anxiously shifting from one leg to the other on the wooden front porch. Wind gently shook dying leaves from the trees. Faded pink and periwinkle and greyish-green and white homes dotted the avenue of Forest Hills. It looked like a map in a video game where the developer had gotten lazy, and copy-pasted the same house fifty times; only changing the color. He counted the wreaths and cards and bouquets, trying to think of what to say.

This just felt wrong.

The woman who answered the door had a worn, leather-like face that was only acquired with age. She was nothing but skin and bone. Her eyes were red and puffy from tears, and her ghostly-white hair was tied into a bun.

“May Parker? I’m Ben Reilly, from the Daily Bugle.”

May curled up her hands into (admittedly, rather frail-looking) fists at her sides. “The Bugle? Do you have any idea of the nerve you have, standing here? After all this time your paper spent convincing people my nephew was a _criminal?_ Get the hell off of my property.” 

This was going about as well as expected. Ben needed to get her on his side before she slammed the door on his fingers, or beat him with a cast-iron skillet.

“Ma’am, I was at the Bridge yesterday when it happened.”

She froze, swallowing back the lump in her throat.

“I’m not even a full-time reporter. I’m a photographer. But I came here because we want to know about your nephew. So that we can tell everyone who he really was.”

She paused for a moment, taking her hand off of the doorknob.

“I want for you to call your boss first.”

Ben nodded, glad his pitch was over. “Deal.” After three rings, Jonah picked up, his voice blaring.

“Reilly, what part of “send your questions to Robbie” did you not understand?”

“Mr. Jameson? I’m May Parker.”

There was a long pause. 

“Ms. Parker,” said Jameson, placatingly. “I assume you’re calling regarding the Daily Bugle’s treatment of your late nephew.”

“Yes, I am. I want some assurance that anything I tell this young man won’t be used to slander my nephew’s memory anymore. And while we’re at it, an apology wouldn’t be out of line either.”

“Well, ma’am, you don’t have to worry. Slander is spoken. In print it’s libel.”

May was cut short before she could respond.

“I apologize. I was just trying to lighten the mood. You see, Ms. Parker, I authorized stories that would constantly compare Spider-Ma . . . Peter to other heroes who didn’t hide behind masks and secret identities. Iron Man, Captain America, policemen, firefighters. But regardless he was a hero. And you have my promise that the Daily Bugle will be the first to defend his legacy.”

May gave a small smile. “I’m glad to hear it. Have a good day, Mr. Jameson.”

Ben hung up.

“Come in, come in; my tea should be ready soon anyway.”

The Parker house could best be described as “cozy”. The door led into the main (only) hall, with the modest kitchen to the left and the stairs up to the second floor to the far right. Peeling flowered wallpaper adorned the walls of the kitchen, a small television on the white marble countertop that was beginning to turn yellow. He and May sat at a chipped and scraped oak table.

He set his phone and table and pressed “record”. He could do the actual writing later.

“How did you and your husband come to be Peter’s guardians?”

“His parents dropped him off so we could look after him on a business trip to Los Angeles. And . . .” She gestured towards the city’s skyline in the distance. “They were in the plane that struck the North Tower. So we raised him as our own.”

“Was he a mutant?”

“What? No, no, of course not. He was just a happy little boy.”

“So he got his powers some other way.”

“A field trip.”

“What field trip?”

“He went on a field trip his freshman year. To ESU. And he was bit by one of their spiders testing god knows what. They sent us this huge fruit basket; must have thought we were going to sue the pants off of them. He started acting up, but we thought it was just growing pains. And . . .” Her eyes began to water.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, ma’am.”

“No, no, it’s alright. He had run away after we got into some argument. I can’t even remember what it was! Maybe he skipped school, or just made a smart remark, I don’t know. Me and Ben were sitting here at the table. And we heard the door open and we thought it was Peter, but he didn’t answer. And . . .” 

“I read the Bugle for all these years,” she said, tears beginning to slide down her face. “And I believed every word you said about Spider-Man. If I’d have known it was him . . . I don’t know what I would have done. I thought this world would be better off without Spider-Man. That we didn’t need him. How awful was I?”

The kettle began to whistle. Wiping her tears, May stood up and poured herself a cup.

“Would you like a cup?”

He didn’t usually drink tea, but she was a nice woman, and nice people aren’t satisfied unless they can get you this or help you out with that. Because they feel if they can’t help you somehow, then they’ve failed. So you might as well let them help, and they’ll feel better about themselves for a while.

“Sure.”

Gently taking a drink (thankfully not burning himself in the process), he was stunned at how _pleasant_ it was. It was bitter and strong, but at the same time oddly comforting.

“He became Spider-Man to avenge his Uncle?”

“I can’t say for sure, but I would like to think not. The idea that he needed Ben’s death to teach him a lesson or inspire him is . . . Ben’s death was pointless. Cruel and pointless, like the universe so often is.”

“You think he was going to become Spider-Man no matter what.”

May nodded. “We have a belief, a philosophy - if you want to call it that - that if you can do things better than anyone else, then it’s not just smart to use those talents for the benefit of others. It’s your moral responsibility. Even when all it does is hurt you.”

Ben hummed in thought. He supposed he could agree with that philosophy - but he had never had any talents. He was just another innocent - a statistic to the villains and the equivalent of an NPC companion during an escort mission to the Marvels. Not to say that there weren’t innocents that could make a profound impact on the world, but they were few and far between when compared to all the Marvels. He had long since settled with the fact that all he was capable of doing was getting a job where he could watch others do all the exciting, world-changing work.

“What was your nephew’s relationship like with Gwen Stacy?”

“They were so good for each other. I don’t know if Gwen knew what he was doing, but I wouldn’t be surprised. Of course I thought he might have been good for my neighbor’s girl, Mary, but that’s water under the bridge now.” They both grimaced at the word “bridge”. “Or over the dam or whatever it is.” 

Ben could have asked more questions, but the tea would have gotten cold.

* * *

_Buzz!_

“From: Unknown Number

Betty forced me to get your number from Jolly and apologize. Me and Foswell checked the books and found an old video store on West 17th Street that Oscorp bought for a shitload. Feel free to join, as long as you spill some of the deets on your story.” 

Ben chuckled to himself, prompting several worried glances from the cab driver. What exactly was Ned hoping to find at that old place? A spare hideout, maybe? Or supplies for an army of Goblins? He might as well crawl in the sewer and look for the Lizard! Leave it to him to get a story about a cartoon villain billionaire and still need more to hook the reader.

Ben stumbled out of the cab, straightening his tie as he walked up the handicap-accessible ramp to the Reed Richards Science Center’s doors (no one was using it anyway). The Center seemed to be a fusion of the brick and stone stylings of Midtown High and the sleek cold glass minimalism of Brooklyn Visions. Betty was making her way to exit the building, but she paused to hold the door open. 

“Hey, Ben. Here to see Dr. Warren?”

“Yeah. You saw him too?”

“He’s basically the only professor Peter and Gwen had who didn’t go insane.”

“So, what did you get out of him?”

“My opinion? Dude’s a total creepo. Wouldn’t shut up about the perfect, saintly “Ms. Stacy” and her straight A’s and her “wonderful personality”, whatever the hell that means. He totally wanted to bang her.”

Ben laughed. “So it’s impossible that she was a good student and person?”

Betty placed a hand on her hip. “I don’t buy _anyone_ being that pure. At least when someone tells you they’re an asshole they’re being honest about it. Plus, a cop for a dad? Her rebellion years must have been interesting.”

“She just _died_ , Betty. What, you’re going to write an expose on her for getting her bellybutton pierced and bringing a switchblade to school?”

“No, I’m going to write the truth. Journalist’s responsibility and all.”

There was that word again.

“You’re really serious about getting to write, huh?”

“You have no idea,” she said as she strutted away.

* * *

Dr. Warren observed the three spiders caught within their individual glass cases (there was also an empty case, but that spider had probably just died, or was being tested on, or something). He was skinny, middle-aged, African-American, with square glasses and wavy salt-and-pepper hair.

“Dr. Warren? I’m Ben Reilly, Daily Bugle.”

Dr. Warren smiled. “Ah, yes. Ms. Brant mentioned you might come to get my thoughts on Mr. Parker. My short answer is that Mr. Parker had gifts and he wasted them.”

Ben cocked his head at an angle. “How did he waste them?”

“As Spider-Man he didn’t even reach half of his potential. All the failures, the collateral, the death . . . and as Peter Parker? His grades were average at best, he had two friends on campus, and I would argue his most utilized talent was finding ways to infuriate them. Peter Parker was an unfortunate accident.”

Ben frowned. “In more ways than one to you. Tell me, are you planning on having any more “accidents” with these things, Doctor?”

Dr. Warren pursed his lips. “If your line of questioning goes much further down this path, Mr. Reilly, I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to give you very helpful answers.”

“Why not?”

“Experiment’s still ongoing.”

“Ongoing - it’s been six years! What the hell could you still be testing?”

Dr. Warren smiled to himself as he headed for the elevator. “Sorry, Mr. Reilly. Until these spiders die and certain patents are approved, I can’t say a word.” And with that the elevator doors slammed shut.

_“Well, that’s just ducky. Maybe the spiders are radioactive or something . . . nah. I’m no science major, but I don’t think that’s how radiation works.”_

A pain shot through his right hand. The black-and-blue spider looked up at him from his wrist, as if to say _“Yeah, I bit you; what are you going to do about it?”_

Ben forced himself to calmly smack the spider. Calmly walk out of the Science Center. Take a deep, relaxing breath. Don’t freak out like a crazy person out where everyone can see you. It was probably a totally normal spider; nothing worth freaking out about.

Needless to say, it didn’t work.

* * *

It took several hours to pass out from lack of sleep. Floating through the dark void had never seemed so peaceful and pleasant. At least there weren't any bodies for now.

“Benjamin Reilly. I’m sorry to interrupt your much-needed rest, but we have important matters to discuss.”

The woman speaking to him was old. Extremely old. Like, “take May Parker’s age and triple it” old. She wore a black robe, and a bright red blindfold as she sat on an oddly fluid-looking throne.

Ben attempted to pinch himself awake.

“That will do nothing, dear.”

_Alrighty_ then. So, he was insane. Things were going well.

“I’m known by a few names, but you may call me Madame Web, and I’m here to explain some things to you. The spider that bit you was a slight variation of the spider that bit young Peter Parker. Double-oh-two, as it’s labeled.”

Ben snapped his fingers. “Aw, man. Only five more and I could have been Spider-Bond.”

“You share his sense of humor. Good, you’ll need that. Once you awaken, you’ll find yourself blessed with great and amazing powers. Enhanced strength and reflexes, the ability to cling to objects, being able to produce webbing -”

“Save it, lady. I’m not using them. Last I checked, these “powers” didn’t do much to stop a glider from running through him.”

“Peter Parker was a brilliant young man. He died as a hero. But the world always needs heroes, and you’re the next in line.”

He ran his fingers through his hair. “The world has enough heroes! There’s like, five Avengers teams any given day! As cool as being Spider-Man sounds, the fight died with him. Th-th-th-that’s all, folks.”

Madame Web frowned. “I’m afraid not. With him gone, escalation is the only possible outcome. One way or another, you’ll come to realize that with these powers comes -”

“If you say “great responsibility” I’m going to jump off the Empire State Building. Has it occurred to you that I’ve got enough responsibilities already? Filing taxes, not getting fired by my boss, movie nights with my nephew! I’m supposed to add “fight crime in spandex” to the list because some kid from Queens wanted to play dress up so he could feel like a big boy hero?

“It’s simple. There are good guys with powers, bad guys with powers, and normal guys. I belong above all the idiot normal people and below the good guys. Got it, Arachne?”

“And who would these “idiot normal people” happen to be?”

“Ned, Jonah, everyone I knew until I was fifteen . . . 90% of the world are morons and assholes.”

“What about Betty Brant? Or Robbie, as you call him? Or Phil?”

“They’re exceptions.”

“Why?”

Ben narrowed his eyes. “Why? Oh, I don’t know. They don’t cut my pay whenever they feel like it. They don’t insult me to my face. They don’t remind me of every douche-canoe that shoved into a locker in high school.”

Madame Web shook her head slowly. “Bitterness is a poison. If you hang onto it long enough, it will kill you. People are going to need your help, regardless of whether or not they deserve it. The rest is up to you.”

* * *

_Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!_

Finally free from the dream (it was a dream, right?), he opened one eye and reached for his vibrating phone. With an arm that was . . . wow. From an outsider’s perspective, it was a subtle change. But it felt stronger. Begrudgingly, he noted one advantage of the bite: insta-workout!

“Call From: J.J.J.”

Joy of joys. 

“Reilly, what’s happening with Leeds? He’s not answering, and Betty’s about to throw me out of my office window.”

“I don’t know, boss,” Ben said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. 

“Alright, well, if you hear anything let me know. And if you talk to him, tell him it had better be life-threatening or he’s fired. Buh-bye.”

Ben groaned. He desperately wanted to go back to sleep. Ned was overdue for getting mugged in a dark alley somewhere. But at the same time, as much as he wanted to be a total asshat, Ned was Betty’s fiance. She was worried sick about him. He owed it to her. Right?

_“I should shower and change clothes . . . it can wait. I’ll fit in with everyone else on the subway anyway. Looks like I’m going to West 17th Street.”_

He fetched a luke-warm soda from his fridge, taking a sip. Soon the weather would change, and he could just leave the windows open and set sodas on his coffee table. 

_“Wait a second.”_

He uncurled his hand from around the can, willing it to cling to his fingertips. It did. Experimentally, he brought his flattened hand towards his face. Took a sip. Tried to dislodge the can with his mouth. Failed.

_“Whoa.”_

Then, setting the can down an inch off the coffee table, he willed his hand to let go. 

_Clunk!_

_“That is so freaking cool!”_

_Fizz . . ._

The now punctured can was leaking soda all over the table.

_“Oops.”_

He went to grab the can, crushing it in his hands and covering him in soda.

_“Damn it! Looks like I’m showering after all.”_

Still, on the upside, he’d never have to ride the subway ever again.

* * *

Web-swinging was absolutely terrifying, and he loved it. Swinging through the city in his sweatshirt quickly fell into a comfortable rhythm. Look for a surface, point, shoot, ride the arc, repeat. And in the early morning, there were few who could say they saw him with certainty. Most saw him as a trick of the light or the drowsy, caffeine-starved mind.

Swinging downward onto the sidewalk, he released his web as he tucked into a gentle roll. He bounced onto his feet, throwing his arms out to his sides like a gymnast trying to stick the landing and imagining a panel of judges throwing out scores. 10, 10, and an 8.8 from the judge that Symkaria had bought off. 

The abandoned Suncoast video store had become sandwiched between Stan’s 24/7 Costume Emporium (“No Refunds!”, a neon sign from the window proudly proclaimed) and Gargan’s Investigative Work. A “CLOSING SALE” banner still hung from the door, which was flung off the hinges in one swift kick. Years of dust covered the cashier’s counter. A plastic bucket full of expired bags of microwavable popcorn had spilled onto the carpeted floor.

Ben knew that searching the main floor wouldn’t result in anything. As anyone who grew up with Suncoast knew, the real exciting part was the basement. Suncoasts’ had everything in the basement. An obscure silent horror movie from the early 30’s? Got three copies. Japanese television show where an emissary from hell fought off space robots with his even larger robot? Of course they have it; they do have taste after all. Mobster movie where a snitch is eaten by guinea pigs? Probably got you on an F.B.I. watchlist, but they’d give it to you. Just be kind and rewind.

But this basement had definitely been renovated recently.

A silver and white table with hooks extending upward to hold . . . well, he would guess the Green Goblin’s glider considering Oscorp owned the place, was sat in the center of the basement. Glass cabinets with dozens of empty rows of storage lined every wall, as the ceiling’s fluorescent lights snapped to life.

_“Oh no.”_

Whatever had happened, Ben needed a costume. 

The costume shop had the typical choices: all four members of the Fantastic Four and all who-even-knew-how-many of the Avengers. Mummies and vampires and werewolves galore. But in a flash of inspiration, Ben found an idea. In the back, he found a rack of bright blue bodysuits. He grabbed them all; he’d need them. Closer to the register was a rack of cheap Spider-Man masks; so cheap they didn’t even draw on the webs. But it had a certain sincerity that Ben found endearing. He grabbed all of them as well.

The man at the register (Stan, Ben presumed; an elderly man wearing a green turtleneck and sunglasses) glanced at the pile of materials Ben placed on the counter. “Not that I’m complaining, but is there any particular reason for why you’re purchasing so many?”

“I’m making a Spider-Man costume, but, uh, I need extra in case I mess up.”

Stan smiled. “Well, I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Eventually.” 

* * *

Ben stood in the mirror of the Daily Bugle’s sixty-second floor’s bathroom, studying himself.

The suits had fit fine (one size fits all, as advertised), but even with his boxers underneath it was trying to emphasize some of his features that should have been kept vague (note to self: get a cup). And the solid blue just screamed “wrong” to his eyes. He needed more color, _different_ color. Curious, he threw his sweatshirt over the costume.

_“Much better. Now I’m not a gigantic eyesore, and I have pockets! And a hood!”_

A spider logo would have really tied the suit together, but he’d pick up some spray-paint tomorrow. For the moment, he just needed to get going. And a name wouldn’t have hurt, either.

_“I can’t just be Spider-Man again! That’s stupid.”_

Stepping out onto the roof and grabbing on to the “L” in the “DAILY BUGLE” sign to steady himself, he set out to start his first patrol; tabling the name issue for later.

Hairs on the back of his head stood straight up, as his nerves pulsated. 

_“What the -”_

A thunderous explosion scorched his backside. 

He flew off the rooftop and nose-dived towards the street, along with the “ILY” in “DAILY”. 

So _that’s_ what it was.

Before he could web himself to the Bugle’s windows, he was hung midair by the back of his hood. Choking and twisting against his will, he took in the sight of his captor as he struggled to loosen his hood’s grip on his neck: His feet were slid through the straps of the hovering Goblin Glider, wearing an orange cowl and cape, a brown leather satchel dangling from his hip, and a scaly, jaundice-yellow mask with glowing red eyes.

“Since we’re both new here, allow me to introduce myself,” said the masked man, his muffled voice shrill and unnaturally strained. “I am the Hobgoblin!”

Ben wriggled his hood free of the Hobgoblin’s grip, gasping for air and dive-bombing once more. 

“The Hobgoblin, really? Dude. Come on. At least the Green Goblin had some alliteration. You couldn’t just make yourself the Emerald Elf and call it a day?” 

_“Yeah, antagonize the nut, that’ll work out great!”_ chastised one mini-Ben inside of his mind.

_“It’s better than having a panic attack!”_ another mini-Ben replied.

“I mean, not that I have much of a moral high ground here, but I would like to think I’m at least getting a “C” in Super-Human Imitation this semester.”

Zipping to the Bugle’s wall of windows, he ran up the side; Hobgoblin hot on his tail. 

Somersaulting back onto the roof, he jumped just high enough to dodge Hobgoblin’s kamikaze pass.

Hobgoblin circled back, flipping up his satchel and placing razor-bats between each knuckle. He then backhanded, launching the razors towards Ben. 

Ben rolled to his left, letting them harmlessly slice past him.

Hobgoblin dug through his bag of tricks again, producing a pumpkin bomb and pushing in the pin with a _click!_ He hurled it through the air. 

Ben shot out a web-line to capture the bomb, jumping, spinning a complete rotation through the air and slinging the bomb back towards Hobgoblin. 

Hobgoblin batted the bomb away with his glider, sending the “DA” in “DAILY” flipping.

“Gotta say, Hobby - can I call you Hobby? - you’re getting straight F’s in creativity and effectiveness right now.”

The Hobgoblin flung himself at Ben, bellowing. 

Ben grabbed onto the Hobgoblin’s cape as he sped by, and pulled himself onto the Hobgoblin’s back, reared back to punch. 

“Someone didn’t attend the Edna Mode school of supervillain practicality - ah!” Ben cried out as his fist was crushed in Hobgoblin’s grip with a sickening _pop!_

Ben was flipped over Hobgoblin’s shoulders, barely able to hang on the glider’s rudders.

Hobgoblin removed his foot from the strap, stomping the spot that only milliseconds ago featured Ben’s good hand, leaving Ben hanging by his aching and throbbing hand. The glider began to barrel roll without stabilization on one side, forcing Hobgoblin to slip his foot back through the strap to regain control. 

Hobgoblin began flapping the rudders up and down, loosening Ben’s grip.

_“The rudders!”_

Ben grabbed both rudders, squeezing and yanking downwards as hard as he could. The crumpled rudders snapped, becoming irreversibly dislocated, and the Glider plunged into a nose-dive.

The Hobgoblin began losing pace with the glider, his feet slowly slipping out of the straps. Ben let go of the glider, catching the screaming Hobgoblin as he fell and sending out a web line to swing through their fall.

As the glider slammed into a manhole cover, Ben roughly threw the Hobgoblin onto a parked car. Grabbing the villain’s satchel and tossing it aside, he webbed the stunned Hobgoblin onto the hood.

“Whoo! Well, Hobbie, I’d like to say you gave a good fight, but . . . well, how was it for you?” Ben pulled his phone out of the hoodie’s pocket, snapping a selfie while doing the “web-shoot” pose with his free hand. “First victory, gotta capture the Kodak moment, ya know? Now, let’s get this mask off . . .”

Ben yanked off the Hobgoblin’s mask.

“Ned?”

Ned struggled against the webs containing him, snapping his head up and down to bewilderingly glance at the webs and the costumed figure before him. “Wh - what happened? Who are you? Why am I . . .”

“Don’t give me the “amnesia” act. It doesn’t work too well after bombing your employers.”

“Bombing? No, no, no, this isn’t real. It can’t be. I was investigating the video store, and I didn’t even get to the basement yet! I don’t remember anything else, I swear to God!”

Ben narrowed his eyes (which had the same effect on his mask). “Sure,” he said, shooting out a line to swing away. “Or you wanted to send Jameson a message. If I didn’t unmask you the line of suspects would go around Central Park twice.

From the Daily Bugle’s (or, as the damaged sign said, DA BUG’s) rooftop, Ben watched the cleanup as Ned was delicately cut out of his web. He heard the sirens, the speculation amongst the officers on how Spider-Man could have returned from the grave, the anguished scream of Betty as she saw her fiance being taken into custody. He shivered against the cold gusts that flew high above the city streets.

_“Well, the hood is a HORRIBLE idea.”_

He gently rubbed his raw neck. 

_“But this felt . . . good. I can do this. ONLY I can do this. And it would be pretty irresponsible if I didn’t do this, right?”_

He smiled under the mask.

_“Besides, I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a little fun.”_

* * *

After changing, Ben quickly headed to the janitor’s closet to search the lost-and-found. He obviously couldn’t carry the suit around, and as for wearing it underneath his work clothes? He’d probably die of heatstroke in the summer before any supervillain could kill him, and while a bit chilly it was still too warm to head out in layers and be comfortable. Unzipping a nondescript black backpack, he stuffed the costume in and closed up the bag, slinging it over his shoulder just as Francine arrived in the doorway.

Ben jumped, startled. “Ah, Francine! You almost gave me a heart attack!”

“The boss is here. He wants to see you and Betty immediately.”

Ben walked to Jonah’s office, expecting the worst. Betty was already there, obviously still reeling.

“Reilly, Brant. I appreciate your hard work, and I apologize for bringing you in early two days in a row, but we’re going to have to move your stories to page two. Our building was just used as a battleground by two Best Choice superhuman knockoffs, one of which a former employee.”

“Jonah,” Betty pleaded. “Leave Ned out of this.”

“What?” Ben asked. “What do you mean, leave him out of this?”

“Ned wouldn’t do this. This isn’t him.”

“Did the police haul away his identical twin by mistake? He’s the Hobgoblin, Betty.”

Jonah raised an eyebrow. “Hobgoblin? The hell kinda name is that?”

_“Great job at the whole “secret identity” thing, Ben.”_

“Oh! Uh, you know, like Puck from Shakespeare? He was a hobgoblin.”

Jonah “ah”ed.

“Ned said he doesn’t remember anything that’s happened in the last twelve hours. He doesn’t deserve for people to know-”

“The _people_ deserve to know the truth!” Ben interrupted. “But now that the truth isn’t convenient for you, it has to be covered up, right?”

_Smack!_

Betty’s slap hadn’t really hurt Ben (after all, he had just survived a point blank explosion and a crushed hand), but it surprised him enough to send him backpedaling into the wall. Why didn’t his “spider-sense” go off?

“Brant, take the week off. We’ll keep the identity of this . . . “Hobgoblin” vague.”

Betty attempted to slap Ben again as she left, but Ben dodged it easily. 

Jonah shook his head. “Her vacation’s ruined, our sign is destroyed, and no one even got any pictures of the guy pretending to be Spider-Man. This is going to be a whole bottle of scotch kind of day.”

“Actually,” Ben said, pulling out his phone, “Would this work for a front page photo?”

Jonah’s eyes grew wide. “This is perfect. Where did you get this?”

“Friend of a friend.” 

“Well, be sure to thank him for that raise you’re getting. Now get out of here! If you’re gonna send me to the poorhouse, at least don’t gloat.”

Ben didn’t feel the cold the entire walk home. His feet hovered above the pavement. 

_“Beating Ned’s ass and getting a raise? Best day ever.”_

_Buzz!_

“From: Daily Bugle

SPIDER-SHAM VANDALIZES DAILY BUGLE WITH HELP OF HOBGOBLIN!

Photos by Ben Reilly”

_“You’ve got to be kidding me.”_


End file.
